Get off your own lawn!

[Minor language warning below, but it's not my fault! Just reporting the facts.]

I turned into an old fogy this past weekend. It happened so fast it left me breathless. One day I was a (sort of) hip guy, (kind of) kickin' it with the youngsters, (maybe but not really) youthful in every aspect. The next, I was an old fart, wondering where the time went.

Here's what happened:

The town is full of graduation parties at the moment, and a family a few doors down was having theirs. I've seen a lot of house parties on this block, but none of them drew so many cars as this one -- there had to be thirty to forty cars parked up the street and around the corner at its height. They rented a tent and chairs, decorated with banners and balloons, and let loose the DJ.

Oooookay.

At first it was no big deal. You expect things like this to be loud. They were playing a lot of club music, which may have included a lot of swearing, but as much of it was not in English, I didn't know. When I was inside with the TV on, it wasn't so bad. Seemed pretty PG-13 to me. The fogyitis started to creep up, though, as I began to realize that most club music consists of a lot of screaming and songs that have a four-note progression repeated ad infinitum. All right, I never liked dance music much anyway, because I dance like a double-amputee rhinoceros, so I assumed that I was being picky and let it go at that.

As the sun went down, the music got louder, and the lyrics moved from PG-13 to R. Now, I am aware enough to know that "show ya titties!" is pretty tame for modern music, however many times it is shouted, but bear in mind that this is a neighborhood with lots of children under the age of ten, including at least one living in that house. By now it's nine o'clock. I'd had a busy Saturday that had started at five, and I was hoping to be in bed by ten.

At 9:30, the music was louder. People started shooting fireworks. I took junior dog Nipper out to pee at one point, and he was so startled and distracted that he couldn't focus enough to do so. It was like charging onto Normandy Beach and having to take a leak. (Fortunately he was able to go later.)

At about 10:30, I went up to try to go to sleep. My wife was staying up a bit watching the tube, and she recommended I use earplugs that I keep for situations like this (usually leaf blowers). In the second-floor bedroom, under the blankets, wearing earplugs, I could still hear the party going on.

And that's when I became a fogy.

I called the cops.

What else could I do? Walk alone into a party full of teenagers and act like Mean Mr. Wilson? I'd be lucky to find just a flaming sack of poop on the porch.

Funny thing about it: I thought the local ordinance said no loud party music after ten. I was informed that it actually says after nine. I can't tell you why none of my neighbors had called the police before then, or at least the dispatcher didn't tell me if they had, but I'll wager none of them wanted to be a buzzkill party-pooping killjoy, no matter how rude the party house was. Neither did I. But I also wanted me and the dogs to get some sleep. And it was making me angry that anyone would be so unconcerned with the feelings of the people they have to live near.

Within twenty minutes, the music shut off. It didn't go back on.

The next day a neighbor was complaining to me about the noise. I didn't ask why he didn't call the police. I didn't cop to it myself. Hey, maybe everyone was calling the police, who were shutting down parties all over town, and just needed my call to make it critical mass for them to visit our street. This is a town that has an eight o'clock curfew on trick-or-treating. We're not 24-hour party people.

So I hated to be That Guy, That Old Fogy, but you know what? To hell with it. When I was a kid, in the Paleolithic Era, parents would be humiliated for the police to be called on their house. They would have sent the DJ packing at nine on the dot. Now? People seem to be willing to get away with whatever they can.

Maybe your experiences in the Paleolithic Era were different, but bear in mind also that I grew up in New York City, a place not known for its kindness and consideration. And yet I would never have allowed that kind of noise to go on that late. Hell, one 120-decibel "show ya titties!" and the DJ and his equipment would be scattered all over the street.

If that makes me old, then pass the Metamucil and get off my lawn.